Chapter 18

A FREAK OF NATURE

The doors at the rear of the wagon box gave way as Andy's body met their inner surface with full force. He stood now on a slant, his body submerged to the waist.

The box had crashed on top of one big flat rock in the river bed, and had tilted on this foundation against another upright rock. But for this it might have gone clear under water or floated down stream, and Andy might have been drowned.

All through his stirring runaway experience Andy had kept possession of the registered mail pouch. It was still slung from his shoulder as he gazed around him. He was careful lest he disturb the equilibrium of the wreck. He found out now that the door hinges had been knocked clear off and the frame badly wrenched in its fall.

"Hello! hello!" shouted an excited voice overhead.

"Hello yourself," sang back Andy, looking up.

The driver of the team into which the runaway had so nearly dashed stood looking down from the bridge planking. His eyes stared wide as Andy suddenly appeared like a jack-in-the-box.

"Was you in there?" gulped the man.

"I was nowhere else," answered Andy. "Say, mister, where's that horse?"

"Oh, he's all right. See him?"

The man pointed along the other shore of the river bank. Lute had crossed the bridge. She had now taken herself to some marshy grass stretches, and was grazing placidly.

Andy was about twenty feet from the shore. He could nearly make it by jumping from rock to rock, he thought. At one or two places, however, the current ran strong and deep, and he saw that he might have to do some swimming.

"See here," he called up to the man on the bridge, "have you got a rope?"

"Yes," nodded the man.

"Long enough to reach down here?"

"I guess so. Let's try. Wait a minute."

He went to his wagon. Shortly he dropped a new stout rope used in securing hay loads. It had length and to spare.

Andy tied the mail pouch to its end. Then he groped under water in the wagon box. He managed to fish out the various parcels it held, including the newspaper bag.

These he sent up first. Then the man at the other end braced the cable against a railing post. Andy came up the rope with agility.

He stamped and shook the water from his soaked shoes and clothing. The mail bag he again suspended across his shoulders.

"Hi, another runaway!" suddenly exclaimed his companion.

Andy traced an increasing clatter of a horse's hoofs and wagon wheels to a rig descending the hill at breakneck speed.

"No," he said. "It's Ripley."

"Who's he?"

"The man who drove that wagon. Stop! stop!" cried Andy, springing into the middle of the bridge roadway and waving his arms.

The rig came up. It was driven by a man wearing a badge. Andy decided he was some local police officer. Ripley was fearfully excited and his face showed it.

"What did you do with that wagon?" sputtered Ripley, jumping to the plankway.

Andy pointed down at the river bed and then at the distant horse. Briefly as he could he narrated what had occurred.

Ripley nearly had a fit. He instantly realized that whoever was to blame for the runaway, it was not Andy.

"Where's the mail?" he asked.

"There's the newspaper bag," said Andy; "here's the registered mail pouch. Those thieves took the other bag of mail."

"They did? Do you hear, officer? Get after them quick, won't you? Never mind us. Describe them, kid."

"How can I, when I never saw them?" said Andy.

Ripley groaned and wrung his hands. He was in a frenzy of distress and indecision.

"See here," spoke the officer to him. "You had better go after that horse. Your wagon isn't worth fishing up. Got all there was in it, lad?"

"Yes, sir," answered Andy.

"Very well, bundle that bag and those packages in here, and come with me. It's good you held on to that registered stuff."

Ripley started after the runaway horse. The officer hurried townwards, questioning Andy closely. He stopped at the post-office and made some inquiries among the crowd loitering about its vicinity. Then he drove to the town hall, went into his office, jumped in the buggy again, and they proceeded toward the circus.

"I've got a vague description of your two men," he told Andy, "but that isn't much, with so many strangers in town. You think they are partners of that Rapp, whom the circus people know?"

"Tapp--Jim Tapp," corrected Andy. "Yes, they mentioned his name."

"The circus detectives ought to handle this case, then," said the village officer. "I'd better see them right away."

The manager of the show regarded Andy in some wonderment as he and the officer unceremoniously entered his presence. His excitement increased as Andy recited his story.

"I warned Ripley," he exclaimed. "Well, he shan't play the spoiled pet any longer. As to you, Wildwood, you deserve credit for your pluck. I'll have a talk with you when we get to Tipton. Too shaken up to do a little general utility work, till I can arrange for something better?"

"Not at all, sir," answered Andy promptly.

Andy saw that he had made a good impression on the manager. The latter was pleased with him and interested in him. Andy waited outside the tent. Soon the village officer and two of the circus detectives sought him out. These latter questioned him on their own behalf.

"Daley, Murdock and Tapp are in this," one of them remarked definitely. "They haven't got much, this time. The next break, though, may be for the ticket wagon. They've got to be squelched."

Andy put in a busy, pleasant day. He was getting acquainted, he was becoming versed in general circus detail.

For an hour he hammered the huge triangle in front of a side show, as directed. At the afternoon rehearsal he was one of twenty dressed like jockeys in the ring parade.

Afterwards Andy was making for the clown's tent, when a fat, red-faced, perspiring fellow, aproned as a cook, hailed him.

"Belong to show?" he asked, waving a frying pan.

"Sure, I do," answered Andy, proudly.

"Help me a little, will you?"

"Glad to. What can I do?"

"Open these lard and butter casks and carry them in. I haven't time. There's a hatchet. My stuff is all burning up inside."

A hissing splutter of his ovens made the cook dive into his tent. Andy picked up a chisel dropped by the cook. He opened six casks standing on the ground and carried them inside.

The cooking odor pervading the place was very pleasing. The cook's assistants were few, some of the regulars were absent, Andy guessed from what he heard the cook say. The latter was rushed to death, and jumping from stove to stove and utensil to utensil in a great flutter of excitement and haste for he was behind in his work.

Andy caught on to the situation. In a swift, quiet way he anticipated the cook's needs. He dipped and dried some skillets near a trough of water. He sharpened some knives. He carried some charcoal hods nearer to a stove needing replenishing.

After awhile the cook began to whistle cheerily. His perplexities were lessening, and he felt good humored over it.

"Things in running order," he chirped. "You're a game lad. Hold on a minute."

The cook emptied out a smoking pan into which he had placed a mass of batter a few minutes previous.

"Don't burn yourself--it's piping hot," he observed, tendering Andy a tempting raisin cake, enough for two meals.

"Oh, thank you," said Andy.

"Thank you, lad. Whenever you need a bite between meals, just drop in."

Andy came out of the tent passing the cake from hand to hand. He caught a newspaper sheet fluttering by, wadded it up, and surmounted it with the hot cake.

"That's better," he said. "My, it looks appetizing. Beg pardon," added Andy, as rounding a tent he ran against a boy about his own age.

At a glance he saw that the stranger did not belong to the show. He was poorly dressed, but clean-faced and bright-eyed, although he limped like a person who had walked too far and too long for comfort.

"My fault," said the stranger. "I've done nothing but gape since I came here. Say, this circus is a regular city in itself, isn't it?"

"Yes," answered Andy. "Stranger here?"

The boy nodded. He studied Andy's face quite anxiously.

"Look here," he said, "you look honest. Some lemonade boys I asked sent me astray with all kinds of wrong information. You won't, will you?"

"Certainly not," said Andy. "What's the trouble?"

"Is it hard to get a talk with the circus manager?"

"Why, no."

"Is it hard to join the show?"

"I have just joined," said Andy.

"Is that so?" exclaimed the stranger, brightening up. "Was it hard to get in?"

"Not particularly. What did you expect to do?"

"Anything for a start," responded the other eagerly. "Only, my ambition is to be an animal trainer."

Andy became quite interested.

"Why that?" he inquired.

"Because it seems to be my bent. My name is Luke Belding. I'm an orphan. Been brought up on a stock farm, and know all about horses. And say," added the speaker with intense eagerness, "if they'll take me on I'll throw in a great curiosity."

He held out what looked like a wooden cage covered with a piece of water-proof cloth.

"Got it in there, have you?" asked Andy.

"Yes. I've trained it, and it's cute. Honest, it's better as a curiosity, and to make people laugh, than a lot of the novelties they have in the side, tents."

"Why," said Andy, with increasing interest, "what may it be, now?"

"Well," answered Luke, "it's a chicken."

"Oh. Two-headed, three-legged, I suppose, or something of that sort?"

"Not at all. No," said Luke Belding, "this is something you never saw before. It's a chicken that walks backward."